I collect the debris in the hem of my skirt:
stones, glass, clay – they fit into my frame.
Stones go to make the backbone,
one below the other like the cobbled path in the garden;
ash settles in the crevices, blown from the sea
where death remains docked; smoke like clouds,
evidence of dissolution, fills the nose and eyes;
swarm of desires embellished by answers unsought
crumbles, turns powder in my hands.
Then the child that I bore in the silence of my self
lights the flame and pours clarified butter,
priest chants of things temporary that unmake the universe.